


Et Tunc Quaero de Damnatis (In Search of Lost Time)

by beetle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Acceptance, Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Backstory, Despair, Exhibitionism, F/M, First Kiss, First Love, Grief/Mourning, Growing Old, Growing Up, Heartbreak, Hopeful Ending, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Last Kiss, Loss, Love Confessions, M/M, Making peace, May/December Relationship, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, No Trespasser DLC Spoilers, Not Post-Trespasser, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Puppy Love, Remembrance, Sacrifice, Self-Acceptance, Self-Denial, Smut, Teacher-Student Relationship, The Space In-Between, Thwarted Love, Tragic Romance, What Justice Demands, What Mercy Inspires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 05:24:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13093314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Occasionally, Imperial Magister Gereon Alexius is givenfirmreason to despair of his brilliant young apprentice’s puzzling tastes. Namely, after a poorly-timed arrival home leads to bearing accidental witness to one of Dorian’s myriaddivertissements; a discussion of alchemical theory leads to brooding, confrontation, and revelation; and an after-supperapéritifleads to a confession . . . and heartbreak.By the time the Elder One is defeated by the Inquisition, eleven years later, Gereon Alexius is just another old man. One with a lifetime of regrets behind him, who’s finally given up his search for lost time.





	Et Tunc Quaero de Damnatis (In Search of Lost Time)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thunderthighs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thunderthighs/gifts), [CollarsAndCurses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollarsAndCurses/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: AU in that Livia Arida-Alexius died earlier and differently than in canon. Set a decade-ish pre-Inquisition (9:31 DA), with a post-Corypheus/pre-Trespasser epilogue (9:42 DA). Attendant spoilers for the game. Smut. Brief voyeurism. Exhibitionism. Suppressed grief and self-denial. Emotional anguish and depression. Implied past-noncon involving a minor character. Mentions of minor characters’ deaths. Title from the Latin translation of the [Proust heptalogy](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_Search_of_Lost_Time) of the same name.

 

**Alexius Estate, Asariel Settlement, Tevinter Imperium; 9:31 DA**

 

Occasionally, Imperial Magister Gereon Alexius is given firm reason to despair of his brilliant young apprentice’s puzzling tastes.

 

Take, for example, Dorian’s preference for after-supper _apéritifs_. Gereon, as every Alexius before him—though not after, as Felix has no tolerance or taste for spirits—favors a generous glass of Antivan brandy, or sometimes port, in his study. This is a near-nightly event that is both ritual and signal that well-deservèd rest is nigh.

 

Dorian, however, whether due to youth, or the Pavus brashness and rebellious nature, rather despises both brandy and port, no matter its kingdom of origin. He seems to prefer Imperial wines, often of middling-at-best caliber, and he takes his cups at _any_ time of day. Provided they don’t interfere with duties or studies.

 

And he _does not savor_ the indulgence, no. He tends to make whole bottles disappear faster than one might expect of a man so young.

 

It’s perplexing, yes. But as it doesn’t seem to muddy his keen mind, or disrupt his exacting method when it comes to magical theory and practice, Gereon holds his tongue on that matter, and others. Such as Dorian’s avant-garde, but also scandalous wardrobe; his insistence on peppering his interactions with peers and some professional superiors with ribald swears (in rather archaic Tevene, but still); and his blatant flirting and _frequent_ _divertissements_ with seemingly _any_ of Gereon’s friends and colleagues who catch his eye. And who return his seemingly egalitarian interest.

 

Which is rather a _disturbing_ number of them, all told.

 

This has all been an incrementally discommoding, but stable routine for the past two years, nearly. A routine which Gereon—busy with his studies, experiments, and Magisterial and familial duties—elects to tolerate by way of ignoring it completely. And he mostly manages to, until one disquieting incident makes that a near-impossibility.

 

Upon arriving home early and walking into his own library one clement, Wednesday afternoon—after a tiring day spent mediating between several discontented members of the Upper Senate and getting absolutely _nothing_ resolved or facilitated—Gereon is greeted with a sight that freezes and floors him instantly.

 

Gereon’s brother-in-law, Rilienus Arida, has stopped by for a visit, it is immediately apparent. He also seems to have taken it upon himself to see to another facet of Dorian’s education.

 

And Dorian, intense, young learner that he is, is taking instruction eagerly and . . . compellingly. Bent over the side of Gereon’s desk, scattering papers and parchment, his flushed, handsome face turned toward the mid-afternoon light of early spring, Dorian is gasping and panting. Biting his lip and occasionally whimpering. _Hissing and moaning_ , as Rilienus— _Livia’s only brother_ —behind him and pressed against him, buggers him with cheerful intensity and increasing force.

 

He’s still properly clothed, is Gereon’s brother-in-law—Dorian, in nothing but the breeches puddled at his feet, is _not_ —but for his undone fly and pushed-up shirt. His pale-ish face has gone ruddy from exertion and pleasure, and a fine sheen of sweat has sprung up as _testament_ to those exertions and pleasures. His light-brown hair has, since Gereon last saw him a few weeks ago, grown-out enough to hint at its natural curl. The same curl Livia had also inherited from the Arida forebears. . . .

 

Gereon blinks and looks down, attempting to clear his lack-of-thoughts, scattered and jangled as they are. He notices Rilienus’ discarded, lightweight cloak and rune-accented staff, laying where they’d likely been dropped: closer to the door and Gereon, than to Rilienus.

 

Dorian gasps again, more surprise, this time, than encouragement of his lover. Helpless to do otherwise in this strange and unsettling moment, Gereon looks over at the pair once more.

 

He finds himself gazing into Dorian’s wide, startled eyes. The younger man has gone quite pale under his smooth, dusky complexion and he’s gaping in burgeoning horror. But when Gereon simply stands there and continues to meet that gaze— _holds_ it with helpless candor and meaning of which he cannot make heads nor tails—the color slowly returns to Dorian’s face tenfold. His already-dilated eyes become all-pupil and his gape becomes panting once more.

 

“ _Master_ ,” he says, shaky and desperate, licking his lips then biting the lower one as his eyes flutter shut. “ _Oh, Master_ . . . yes, _please_ , yes.”

 

Without thought, Gereon moves closer by a few staggering steps— _of course_ , he does . . . when his apprentice requires his presence and assistance, Gereon is obliged to be available in _whatever_ way is needed—that momentum is halted by Rilienus’ breathless chuckles and redoubled thrusts.

 

“Such a willing and practiced little catamite you are, _Serah_ Pavus,” Livia’s brother murmurs with acquisitive fondness, his right hand leaving Dorian’s bare hip to splay on and slide up his equally bare back. It’s the hand of a man examining what he intends to claim, or is already claiming. Indeed, his faster, harder thrusts are driving muffled whimpers and cut-off moans from Dorian.

 

As rattled and unhappy about this development as Gereon is, that displeasure turns into sudden, but fiery rage, when Rilienus sighs and leans down to kiss Dorian’s shoulder and nape with obvious affection, as well as possessiveness.

 

“By the _Maker_ , Dorian . . . you shall be the sweet delirium and death of me, pretty one,” Rilienus tells Dorian, holding him closer and tighter by the hips, then the arms, until the only motion from either of them is the furious pistoning of _Rilienus’_ hips and his nuzzling into Dorian’s neck.

 

And Dorian’s eyes are open again. A reluctant glance at them, and Gereon is captured anew by storm-gray that is lit by golden sunshine. By desire.

 

That desire is _not_ for _Rilienus_ . . . not the lion’s share of it. Gereon understands this, in but an instant. That understanding is confirmed by Dorian’s next words.

 

“ _Please, Master_. . . .” he whispers like a penitent entreating both forgiveness and exaltation, and on the back of a shuddering exhale. And Gereon reaches out as if to somehow touch and reassure, even from all the way across the library, Dorian’s name on his lips and the flush of reciprocated desire—of _need_ —on every inch of his skin.

 

Then Dorian gasps in a sharp breath, his eyes shutting tight as he tenses . . . shudders and bites his lower lip . . . then relaxes slowly, shaken occasionally by the last moments of his release, then the aftershocks of it.

 

Behind him, Rilienus’ is driving himself into Dorian’s body without rhythm or finesse, now—simply fighting for every bit of depth he can get and every bit of ownership he can play at.

 

“That’s right,” he grunts, pinning Dorian to the desk hard with his sturdy, square frame, and nuzzling Dorian’s still-flushed cheek. “ _You know_ who your master is, lovely boy.”

 

As if a spell has been broken, Dorian’s eyes fly open again, cogent and aware and dismayed. But still locked on Gereon who, also as if freed from a spell, stumbles backwards toward the door on silent, numb feet. His eyes are wide and throbbing, but he can’t look away from Dorian’s. For though his gaze is frightened and wary again, his face quivers delicately with a hope Gereon has seen before, but never so powerfully.

 

And never so unequivocally declared. Focused. _Aimed_.

 

 _Yes_ , Gereon realizes as he near trips back over the threshold of the library, rights himself almost absently, and pauses for a few moments. _He knows who his master is, and has for some time. So, perhaps, have I. . ._.

 

Then Rilienus is the one gasping. And swearing and groaning, as well. His right hand clutches at Dorian’s bicep, dragging furrows and welts into the gleaming-smooth, unmarred skin. He grits out Dorian’s name in a drawn-out hiss, followed by a loud grunt that becomes a low, triumphant roar of completion.

 

Dorian shivers but, even as Gereon forces himself back into the hall and around the door post, the younger man doesn’t look away. Doesn’t free Gereon from his gaze . . . from his fear and his hope and his _need_.

 

In the end, Gereon’s freedom comes when he silently pulls the library door partially-closed after him. Its new, acute angle blocks that radiant, gray-gold hope like a blessèd aegis shielding Gereon from mortal injury.

 

Thus secured, Gereon flees not to his study, and the small sleeping quarters attached to it—where he’s always slept in the six years since Livia went to the Maker—but to the one place even brash, bold _Dorian_ wouldn’t follow him.

 

And, once cloistered in the dimly-illuminated bedchamber—hard and breathing that way, weighted down by grief and confusion, realization and guilt—he tightly shuts the barely-drawn drapes, plunging the room into total darkness. This darkness is both familiar and strange, comforting and agonizing.

 

He feels his way to his celibate widower’s bed— _ever-after a widower and ever-after celibate_ , he’s told himself since he lost Livia—and flops down into its stuffy and contained softness. He’s immediately surrounded and nearly suffocated by her scent. By _Livia’s_ scent . . . the light-wistful-faded attar of hyacinths . . . the so-called _sorrow-flower_. . . .

 

With final thoughts not of Dorian and Rilienus, but of his brilliant, intelligent, _sparkling Livia_ , he plunges himself into that long-missed fragrance and silent sobs . . . then, into the abyssal deepness of a sleep which is, nonetheless, not _too deep_ for dreaming.

 

#

 

The next several weeks after the library are . . . awkward.

 

Though Gereon attempts to treat Dorian no differently than before—and mostly succeeds—there seems to be a new gulf between them. The familiarity and ease, the warmth and enjoyment that had permeated their relationship for the several years prior to that cursèd afternoon, seems to have fled.

 

Their days are spent at a scholarly and respectful—wary—distance. _In silence_. Their evenings are much the same, except on the evenings when Felix, _wonderful and warm Felix_ , is there to act as a buffer. But even then, that old familiarity and ease is more pretense than fact.

 

But Dorian is witty and charming and well-rounded: a truly radiant soul who draws both the eye and the interest. He’s also fiercely intelligent, socially astute, and versed enough in Felix’s academic pursuits and hobbies—mainly mathematics and alchemy—to keep a conversation going smoothly. One that includes all parties, even when one of those parties is as prone to silences and brooding as Gereon has always been.

 

He would almost think that he hadn’t—could almost forget that he _had_ —walked in on his apprentice being bent over a desk and taken by his late wife’s only brother.

 

Taken and enjoying it, and _desperate_ to achieve his release by it, if not _because_ of it. . . .

 

Several times during this specific supper, Gereon finds himself turning over that memory, and usually while brooding in the direction of his magnetic apprentice.

 

Once dessert is served, and even Dorian’s entertaining repartee and badinage is obviously winding down, Gereon merely stares distractedly and muses. Felix expounds happily on the probable logistics of organic transmutation—like his mother, he has a mind for math and method, all precision and fine-detail . . . whereas Gereon’s always been better about intuitive leaps, and overarching theories and philosophies—and waves his dessert spoon as emphasis, as he’s done since he was a small boy. Dorian’s attention is genuine and amenable, but limited to sounds of agreement and encouragement.

 

Gereon frowns into his small, half-finished dish of strawberry sorbet, and is deeply discontented.

 

He soon finds himself gazing at Dorian again, at those dramatic eyes, and his classic beauty and intimidatingly _patrician_ bone-structure, both of which speak more to his Thalrassian forebears than it does of House Pavus. The elegance of his throat and the grace of his hands is mesmerizing. The quirk of his lips and the flush of his cheeks are. . . .

 

Suddenly, that stormy gray settles on Gereon and lingers, all wary hope and restrained need. The questions in them are clear and plain, but for once, Gereon has no answers for his pupil. At least none that he’s willing to offer.

 

Or he _thinks_ he doesn’t. He also doesn’t think he’s been staring—been holding that gaze—for especially long, until Dorian’s breath catches quietly, but still audibly. His stormy, intent stare falters to his untouched, liquefying sorbet.

 

Sighing, Gereon looks away and attends to his own sorbet, though he doesn’t taste it at all.

 

Not long after, he cites a bit of leftover work from earlier that needs completing, and excuses himself early. He bids Felix and Dorian—his son, and his son’s _contemporary and closest friend_ —a pleasant rest of the evening, then hurries off to his study. He can feel Dorian’s eyes, all hurt and hope and, _yes_ , even now, _admiration_ , on him as he exits the dining room.

 

Gereon holds his breath until he’s down the hall and around a corner.

 

From there, he drifts to his study listlessly, feeling as if he’s unable, now, to draw adequate breaths. Upon shutting the study door behind him, he leans against it and hangs his head for several winded minutes.

 

He has no hope that his work will soothe or distract his recent discontentment, or answer the pressing questions of his recently unexamined life. But there’s really nothing for it but to resume that work. Perhaps the Maker will grant that for tonight, at least, he’ll manage to wear himself into a repose too deep for the dreams that plague him even while awake.

 

In the case of either sort of dream—sleeping or waking—when he returns to himself, it’s not to his belovèd _Livia’s_ name trapped, desperate and yearning and _fervent_ , behind the prison-bars of his gritted teeth.

 

#

 

It hasn’t even been half an hour since dessert—and Gereon hasn’t even glanced at his waiting work—when there’s a soft knock at the door.

 

Startled, but still distracted, he calls for the person he assumes to be either Erasmus—his head of household—or Felix stopping to check on him before seeking their own beds, to enter.

 

He’s once again startled, enough to gasp, when the door opens and Dorian steps in. The ever-fashionable young mage is wearing his least-complicated after-supper outfit of pale linen shirt; plain, dark (form-fitting, of course) trousers; and unadorned house-slippers. He’s also carrying a small, silver tray bearing Gereon’s favorite Antivan port, two glasses, and a dish of bite-sized, raspberry pastry-puffs dusted with confectioner’s sugar.

 

He is effortless and radiant and _beautiful_ , and Gereon smiles, because . . . _of course_ , he does.

 

Of course, he does.

 

He’s startled, yes . . . but not really, he realizes. After all, an Imperial Magister—even genial, academic, lacking-in-detractors _Gereon Alexius_ — _should_ be able to sense when a confrontation is brewing and imminent. Though _this Imperial Magister_ rather thinks that, no matter the outcome, no one involved in the impending verbal show-down will call himself _victor_.

 

“Knock-knock,” Dorian says with calm, but wry confidence. He shuts the door behind him and makes his graceful, unhurried way to Gereon’s rather untidy and disorganized desk. _Dorian_ is the one who usually tidies and organizes Gereon's notes, research, and professional correspondence. But he hasn’t been to Gereon’s study since the library-incident. Now, he tsks, and starts to shift tomes and papers alike, but just enough to set down the tray. He’s smiling fondly, but that smile is aimed at Gereon’s hopeless desk. “One wonders how you ever find _anything_ in this chaos, Master!”

 

Gereon shivers . . . but smiles, too, and speaks before thinking. “You sound just like Livia.”

 

Dorian’s eyes dart to Gereon, then away, before he sits in _his chair_ , directly across from Gereon’s. “Felix speaks of her often. Of her kindness and intelligence, her charm and vivacity. She sounds like an amazing, complex, and formidable woman. And a rare and lovely person, as well . . . I would have liked to know her,” he says softly, earnestly.

 

“And she, you, I have no doubt. You share many of the same qualities, especially a quick and curious turn of mind. As well as a . . . wicked sense of humor.” For the first time in many weeks, Gereon finds himself chuckling as Dorian colors fetchingly and averts his emotive eyes. As with reflected daylight, those gray eyes also flicker golden with reflected firelight, too. Though, instead of the unassuming, blameless gold of a spring afternoon, the gold in Dorian’s eyes now flashes fierce and turbulent . . . shading into capricious orange and heated amber.

 

Silence falls between them for a few minutes, trembling and expectant. Gereon stares at his untouched work and Dorian stares at _Gereon_ —covertly, but Gereon still feels that keen, yearning gaze like the warmth of the fire, hot and bright on his face.

 

“Dorian,” he begins with a sigh that’s both weary and sad. After an anxious startle and freeze, Dorian then begins setting out the glasses and pouring the port, which it appears Erasmus has already decanted. The familiar ritual comforts and distracts them both, it seems.

 

 _Though, assuredly, for far different reasons_ , Gereon supposes as his guilty, helpless eyes follow each articulate gesture of Dorian’s strong, capable hands.

 

“Thank you, Dorian,” he says with another soft sigh, upon accepting the proffered glass and automatically taking in the exotic aroma of his favorite _apéritif_. He’s never been to Antiva, but he’s always imagined that the district where this port is made must smell of nothing else.

 

( _Livia,_ however, had been to Antiva City once as a child, and claimed that _that_ part of the kingdom, at least, had _reeked_ of tanneries and murder. The Antivans, themselves, she’d described as “lushly gorgeous, terribly _clever_ , and _dangerously_ charming.” And that second descriptor had been high praise, indeed, from a mage and scholar of Livia’s caliber, breeding, and intellect.)

 

Gereon takes a small, but fortifying sip of his port and remembers the warm, drowning-deep darkness of her eyes, and the fondness therein whenever she gazed upon her husband and son. _Every_ mere glance at Gereon and Felix had made her shine . . . made her _glow_ with a joy which, after Felix, had always felt like the _greatest_ achievement of Gereon’s eclectic, celebrated life.

 

“No, thank you,” he says now, unable to help a second smile as he returns to the present. Dorian reluctantly withdraws the offer of the pastries. He sits the dish back on the tray, then appropriates two puffs for himself. His own glass of port is sparing and untouched. He’s frowning down at the second puff as he takes a delicate, but distracted bite of the first.

 

Simply the sight of him breaks Gereon’s heart—breaks _Gereon_ —in a way he’s in no shape to parse, _or_ to deal with in an appropriate fashion. Dorian’s very presence makes his sweet Livia’s memory feel near, indeed . . . and achingly distant, too.

 

“You are . . . so young, Dorian,” Gereon finally manages, uncertain whether it’s compliment or complaint, admiration or accusation.

 

Dorian smiles, dry and sardonic, but doesn’t look up. “Yes. All part of my appeal, or so I’ve oft been told.”

 

“I can imagine.”

 

“Can you, Master?”

 

Gereon aims his focus at his port and takes another sip, warmed to overheating by Dorian’s intent stare.

 

“Not for lack of circumvention, but . . . yes. _Imagining_ is a pastime at which I seem to excel, where you’re concerned, Dorian,” he mutters ruefully, half to himself. Dorian’s breath stutters so sharply, Gereon can hear it. At this rare evidence of uncertainty, he presses what should feel like an advantage gained, but feels more like a trap set for two. “Are you infatuated with him?”

 

There’s a confused beat, then Dorian huffs and chuckles. “With _Serah_ Arida? No, Master Alexius. I’m not. Nor is _he_ infatuated with _me_. But he likes my looks and I like his . . . taste in paramours. Thus, as many do, we indulge in a convenient and mutually beneficial arrangement between friendly parties, nothing more.” He shrugs dismissively.

 

Gereon frowns and knows that, for all Dorian’s sophistication, when it comes to men like _Rilienus Arida_ —men to whom practically _nothing_ is truly worth _anything_ , and the few things that _are_ worth something, are worth _everything_ . . . worth sinking to any repulsive nadir and dishonorable behaviors to _keep_ —his apprentice’s youthful naivete and lopsided experience is showing.

 

“Whatever the arrangement between you two, if and when you choose to conclude it, I . . . suggest you do so in a place of strong allies. Or at least reliable witnesses,” Gereon advises discreetly, returning his gaze to Dorian’s surprised face. “You may, in fact, rely upon _me_ , for . . . back-up, if that isn’t too awkward for you.”

 

“What? You—” Dorian frowns and shakes his head. “You _actually think_ Rilienus would try to bind me to him against my will? Or harm me, should that prove too difficult?”

 

Thinking of his own late father’s— _the Alexius’_ —determination to end his own grandson’s life simply because Felix was not the sort of Alexius-scion he'd wanted . . .  Gereon can only shudder.

 

He doesn't even want to imagine to what lengths _Rilienus_ , now _the Arida_ , would go to keep a beautiful, brilliant young mage who is— _even now_ , never mind at the realization of his _full_ potential—very many things _any Magister_ would want to mold or control or possess.

 

“I . . . think that there are many reasons why it is axiomatic that House Arida is built on scorched earth, and the blood and lives of the loyal,” Gereon contents himself with replying. And even though it isn’t all he wants to say—even _Livia_ had never gotten from her husband _all_ he’d wanted to say—it’s enough to plant a seed of caution and calculation in Dorian’s quick, restless mind.

 

For now, that will have to do.

 

Gereon finishes two-thirds of his port in the silence that follows, and Dorian steadily, elegantly devours two-thirds of the raspberry puffs.

 

“I haven’t seen Rilienus since . . . since _that_ afternoon, anyway,” he eventually mumbles, sulky and nibbling at his current puff like a dejected child. Gereon is overtaken by a rush of affection and optimism, despite the waves of jealousy and vindictive spite—all aimed at his brother-in-law, for though Rilienus seems not especially reprehensible for an _Arida_ . . . Gereon knows that such _seeming_ is ultimately situational—that wax and wane within him, like miserable tides.

 

“Is your . . . arrangement no longer convenient and beneficial, then?” he asks as mildly as he’s able. Dorian shrugs rather petulantly.

 

“I . . . don’t know. Even had he not been called to Minrathous on business the next day, I needed some . . . recovery-time after his particular brand of enthusiasm. As usual,” he adds, wincing with recall that doesn’t seem to displease him, entirely. Then he blushes and places the nibbled-on puff on the plate with its few remaining brethren. “I also needed time and distance to think, after he made a . . . proposal, of sorts. And after he confronted me with a . . . particular truth he claims to have known about me for some time.”

 

“A truth?” Gereon shivers as a cold feeling settles in the pit of his stomach. If _anyone_ can make even an obscure truth into widely-accepted “knowledge,” as well as turn that knowledge into power and _leverage_ , it’s a motivated Arida in his prime.

 

Something which even young Dorian clearly understands, as evidenced by his heavy sigh.

 

“Yes. Apparently, Rilienus knows, or thinks he knows many things. For instance, he knows that you were there _that_ afternoon, watching us. Knows what having you _see_ me like that _did_ to me. Knows— _has known_ —that I. . . .” Dorian falls silent and his flush deepens. It’s most of a minute before he stops chewing his lower lip, swipes the tip of his tongue across it nervously, and goes on. “Well! Suffice it to say that he knows more about me than he’s been letting on to _me_! _Not_ a state of affairs I’m likely to accept with grace and acquiescence!”

 

Gereon highly approves of this attitude, but responds with nothing more than gentle, yet noncommittal acknowledgement. His unsettled mind and tempestuous heart linger on that unconfessed bit of knowledge Rilienus has, which Dorian had chosen not to disclose.

 

He thinks he can guess what it might be, but knows that if he’s proven right . . . there’ll be no ignoring it and no going back to the way things were before.

 

“And he has also expressed . . . _preferences_ for future arrangements. Preferences in which I _do not_ care to indulge,” Dorian says stiffly, and at this, Gereon sighs again.

 

Rilienus, now the age Livia was at the time of her death, is more than a decade younger than Gereon and his peers. Shortly after his induction into the Minrathous Circle, rumor and scuttlebutt had gone around about the things the Arida-scion and his set used to get up to while “out on the town.” The most persistent and troubling of which Gereon’s _never_ forgotten: fearful and damning whispers that those talented and ambitious scions had _preferred_ to “hunt in a pack” and “share their prey.” Whether said prey had desired the attentions of multiple . . . _suitors_ . . . or _not_.

 

The thought of sweet, still-so-innocent _Dorian_ in the hands of Rilienus’ . . . _pack_ makes Gereon go colder than anything ever has. Even though it’s entirely likely that whatever else Rilienus’ preferences are now, he probably “hunts” alone, these days. 

 

Probably.

 

“I am not unaware of some of Rilienus’ . . . preferences. Of his past.” Off Dorian’s surprised and curious expression, Gereon refuses to elaborate with a single shake of his head. “Those preferences are but one reason Livia and I limited his access to Felix when he was a child. Felix is a gentle soul—a rare and kind one. Livia and I wished him to remain so. We had no intentions of letting him be influenced and corrupted by the excesses of either of our Houses, even unintentionally. And had I known that Rilienus would turn his intentions and _attention_ to _you_ , Dorian. . . .”

 

“I’m no angelic, open-hearted darling, like Felix is! And anyway, I’m _two entire months_ —and four whole days, besides— _older_ ,” Dorian huffs, and from the daunting height of his twenty-and-one-third years. Gereon finds himself smiling again.

 

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But you are young and still inexperienced in some ways. Precious and . . . possessed of a hope and fire that is _dazzling_. Even to a man as jaded and . . . yes, heartless, as Rilienus _can be_ and has _often_ been. It is concern for you, no more or less, that urges my advice to you: Be wary. And be watchful,” he adds, because Dorian is intensely observant, when pointed and guided in the appropriate direction.

 

Once he’s of an age to understand and recognize _his own_ motivations, and find his own _direction_ , he will be a force to be reckoned with. A force for knowledge and wisdom, justice and goodness.

 

Provided the _wrong sort_ can be kept away from him in these formative and impressionable years.

 

“Is it _truly_ no more than concern for your naïve and defenseless charge that’s moved you to speak so candidly and affectingly, tonight, Master?” Dorian asks quietly, once more startling Gereon out of the anxious, melancholy run of his thoughts. He blinks and stares at Dorian’s lovely, young face. At the hope and potential that beam from him in near-tangible rays.

 

In these moments, Gereon is more certain than ever that Dorian Pavus _must_ be guarded from—and nurtured in spite of—the Rilienus Aridas of the world.

 

And, perhaps, even from the stymied, but lecherous covetousness, and grasping, desperate loneliness of the _Gereon Alexiuses_ , as well.

 

“Even if it was not, it would be unwise of you to unearth any motivations beyond that, or concern yourself with any other . . . ancillary intentions. And unwise of _me_ — _wrong of me_ —to entertain them,” Gereon says, slowly, carefully, and oh, so _heavily_.

 

Dorian looks stunned and wounded. “But . . . _Gereon, please_ , I—” he starts to say, then falls silent, blinking rapidly. Though it does nothing to mitigate or lessen the shine of his eyes. They brim with more than the deepest secrets of his young and innocent—oh, _so_ innocent!—heart.

 

“Don’t, Dorian.” Gereon holds up a hand when Dorian would gainsay him. “I beg of you—for both our sakes, but especially _yours_ —to let it lie. Let it _fade_. And let it pass.”

 

For a minute, Dorian’s face flickers between many emotions: hurt, anger, heart-ache, heart- _break_ , frustration, despair, pride, and finally . . . acceptance.

 

Rather, _Gereon’s_ willfully rose-colored designation for the deep, bruised _hopelessness_ in eyes not suited to such unaccustomed bleakness.

 

Calling that heart-rending reaction _acceptance_ may possibly— _possibly_ —make it slightly less difficult for him to get to sleep tonight than it already will be. Although, Gereon is only _barely_ capable of holding onto his faculties, under the steady assault of inebriants, before dropping into unconsciousness like a stone into a deep pond. Worse comes to worst, the bottle of port is still mostly full, and Dorian still hasn’t even _touched_ his glass.

 

“As you wish, Master Alexius,” Dorian says at last, his voice stiff and hoarse, but firm. He stands slowly, as if pained, but with no less grace than usual. His bow is fluid and practiced, and perfectly, exactly respectful . . . with none of the customary cheeky insouciance that so effortlessly draws smiles from Gereon. When Dorian straightens, his eyes still shine, but in a walled-off and brittle way Gereon hasn’t seen in his student since shortly after they met. His face is once more a striking mask which Gereon cannot see behind.

 

He’s regretful . . . and relieved.

 

“Will you have need of me before noon, tomorrow?” There’s a grim, determined flicker in Dorian’s eyes Gereon cannot interpret, but that he’s not its focus. And at the always-surprising reminder of Pavus-resolve and conviction—and the equally surprising, _miles-wide-and-fathoms-deep,_ Thalrassian-will and _-ruthlessness_ —he’s certainly glad of _that_. “There are . . . things I wish to see to before too much longer passes. I should be free within an hour or two, but I can put them off, however, if—”

 

“No, no, Dorian, please . . . take care of whatever errands and, when you’re ready, we’ll attend to your studies, once more. I . . . realize I’ve been inexcusably lax in your training for some weeks, now. . . .” Gereon apologizes, turning a bit red. More so, when Dorian smirks with casual commiseration.

 

“Extenuating circumstances, Master. _Et cetera_.” He shrugs and glances at the tray. “Shall I have Dagna come to retrieve the tray in an hour, or so?”

 

“Hmm? Ah, no. Not necessary, my young friend.” Gereon manufactures a laugh that sounds more like a tired groan, and averts his eyes to the fireplace. Even staring stubbornly into the flames, he can still see the memory of Dorian’s fierce and turbulent gaze, as it had been for a few moments before he’d composed himself. It makes Gereon shut his eyes in hopes of lessening the ache in his chest. “There’s no need for her to forego her rest, simply to be at the beck and call of a restless, foolish old man.”

 

There’s no response to that, nor does Gereon expect one. But when he opens his eyes, he gets the start of his life to see Dorian kneeling next to him, gazing up at him as if at some bright and overwhelming light. That newly-donned mask is put aside, for the moment, and Dorian’s heart—his amazing, beautiful heart—is on display in his eyes not as fire, but as warmth. Pure and unconditional warmth.

 

Only one other person has _ever_ looked at Gereon this way. And, just as with that _other_ , Gereon is rendered speechless, breathless, and subject to a sweet ache proximal to his fluttering, overwhelmed heart.

 

“Restless, perhaps,” Dorian says, in a voice gone rough and strained. He places his right hand on the arm of Gereon’s large, worn chair and leans closer, his eyes widening as they search Gereon’s face with adoring intensity that’s as affirming as it is discomfiting. “But _you_ are neither old nor foolish, Master Alexius. You are . . . _kind_ and considerate, strong and _noble_. Even when you would rather do what is . . . easy and pleasant, you always do what is _right_. What is _good_. What is . . . in _your_ view . . . _best for all_. Even for me.” Dorian smirks and sniffs, his gaze faltering for a few moments. “And while I have little _fondness_ for such uprightness and sacrifice, at the moment, I will _never_ not appreciate—and _admire_ —it. _And you_.”

 

And while Gereon is still gaping down at his apprentice, said apprentice grins at him, affectionate and tender, mischievous and amused. Then he bobs up—quick as a salamander—to brush a brief, chaste kiss to the left corner of Gereon’s trembling mouth.

 

Then . . . he’s gone. Before Gereon can do more than register the persistent, ice-fire tingle of his lips—and the resultant flush from even that momentary contact—Dorian is gone. The polite, anticlimactic click of the door shutting is an ironic, culminating bookend to the unmeaning, but _absolute_ devastation of Gereon Alexius, which had begun one unsuspecting afternoon, several weeks prior.

 

Though, the spicy-earthy scent of cardamom that always seems to attend Dorian—along with the faint-sweet hint of raspberries—lingers. It is dire temptation and _delicious perdition_ , to which he is resolved _not_ to succumb . . . and which he will _always_ regret denying himself.

 

Yet another regret among many, that. It will surely not be the last.

 

Long after the door between him and all the things he wants so urgently has shut forever—long after the fire’s burned low—Gereon sits. He broods, and lets the sense-memories of Dorian’s kiss torture him far into the night, and beyond any hope of respite or relief.

 

The port he leaves decanted, but untouched. Leaves it to _ruin_ , which is of no moment. For though Gereon is absently tempted to guzzle, refill, and repeat the process until the bottle is finished—and Dorian’s neglected glass, as well—he has a feeling his once-favorite libation will taste of nothing but rue and ash, tonight.

 

And might do, for a long while, yet.

 

 

**Skyhold, Frostback Mountains, Ferelden-Orlesian Border; 9:42 DA**

 

When the door to Gereon Alexius’ guarded and _warded_ quarters at Skyhold Castle opens one blustery, overcast fall afternoon—immediately after a token knock—he expects to see Grand Enchanter Fiona, at the behest of the Inquisition. Bearing yet more immersive research that needs doing, or even necessitates a rare excursion for Gereon: out of his comfortable gaol, to Skyhold’s steadily growing _repositum arcanum_.

 

For such is the _only_ reason the Grand Enchanter comes to see Gereon. And but for one other, she is the _only_ one to do so in the year since his recruitment to the Inquisition.

 

That other visitor had been by once, briefly, to relay news of and condolences for the passing of the son who’d meant everything to Gereon. The son for whose life Gereon had gambled all and lost the same. Only to come to the cruel and ironic realization that his cherished son had ultimately paid the same price as—or likely worse than—if Gereon had never acted at all. . . .

 

Other than _those two_ visitors, and the silent-wary, guard-escorted servants who bring his meals and other sundries, Gereon is left alone. And even if that state of affairs _does not_ suit him, he’s not so delusional as to rail against that which he’s courted, earned, and deserves.

 

So, to say that Gereon’s shocked to see his former-apprentice step into the room with diffidence, but also with that familiar determination Gereon remembers so fondly, is to understate the feeling that moves through him like lightning across a clouded sky.

 

Like warmth to the marrow of his old, cold, lonely bones.

 

Like every ounce of his regret for all the things that _should_ have been . . . but really _couldn’t have_.

 

As ever, Dorian Pavus is brilliance and radiance incarnate, even wearing what is likely some of the more subdued offerings from his personal wardrobe: a dark-gray shirt, with cloth-of-silver accents that match his sparkling eyes; tan breeches (form-fitting, as ever); and simple, but well-made, highly-shined black boots.

 

But he still looks—not so far behind his pleasantly neutral façade, and bemusing, but complimentary mustache—like the expressive, bare-faced young apprentice of whom Gereon had been so proud, with whom he'd been so impressed, and for whom he'd felt _such_. . . .

 

“I’d ask how autumn in the mountains of Southern Thedas is treating you, but I’m fairly certain of the answer I’ll receive. Thus, I shan’t tax you with such inane preambling,” he drawls, managing to sound fond and put-upon at the same time. Such intriguing contrast Gereon remembers, as well, from the old days. Unsurprisingly, in the face of it, he remains as one willingly bewitched, and can only observe and appreciate his unexpected company.

 

Dorian takes a curious glance around Gereon’s quarters—he’s only been in them once before, briefly, to bring news of Felix’s death—then makes a bee-line for the small-ish table before what Gereon whimsically thinks of as “the sun-room.”

 

(It’s simply a narrow riser, and cushioned window-seat with a middling view of an unfrequented corner courtyard. _Sometimes_ there are chickens or wild nugs poking about in spring and summer, but rarely in fall, and not at all in winter. Yet it’s still far better than Gereon had expected to get—or remotely deserves—after being made an “agent” of the Inquisition.)

 

And it’s a measure of how deeply he’s retreated into himself, since his defeat at Redcliffe and since news of Felix’s passing, that Gereon only notices the pewter tray, dusty bottle, and two glasses Dorian’s brought with him, when they’re set on the table. Dorian then busies himself with dragging the untenanted of Gereon’s two chairs to the table, as well.

 

Then, he does the same to the tenanted chair, after tugging Gereon out of it with more of that fussy, endearing, Thalrassian imperiousness. Gereon complies without protest, caught-up as he is in a maelstrom of elation, exaltation, and despair. He shuffles meekly to the chair already at the table and sits once again. A few moments later, Dorian is settling across from him with a charming, practiced smile.

 

He uncorks the decanted bottle and a thick-sweet aroma reaches Gereon’s nose almost immediately. That of . . . _Orlesian brandy_.

 

Gereon almost laughs. _He’s_ never liked the stuff—though many of his former-colleagues had found it entertainingly overproduced and syrupy—and knows that _Dorian_ has no preference for brandy at all.

 

“I know, I know,” Dorian confirms, sighing dramatically upon catching Gereon’s amused half-smile. His own becomes less practiced and more genuine. Downright cheeky, just as it had once tended to be. The sight of this missed . . . _beloved_ smile would bring Gereon to his knees, sobbing, were he not sitting. And long-inured to denying himself the unearned distraction—the undeserved comfort—of remembered sweetness. “ _Dreadful_ stuff, Orlesian brandy—even more so than Antivan! However, it’s _far_ better than almost everything else to be had—unless you _share_ my shameful weakness for Fereldan beer—at this ancient, drafty pile! Especially in the wake of the, er, victory foofaraw a little while back. . . .”

 

Gereon nods as Dorian trails off into a mumble. The Elder One’s defeat brings him neither satisfaction nor discommode. Nothing does, in the extended aftermath of losing the son for whom he’d have seen the entire world doomed and dead, if it meant even just the _hope_ of not losing him.

 

Of course, in these fallen down-days, Gereon derives _some_ small contentment from losing himself in magical research—his lifelong area of expertise and renown—in a nearly undisturbed social-vacuum. But that contentment is very small, indeed. And only slightly better than a quick death, followed by eternity in the Fade with all the people he’s wronged. All the people he’s hurt. All the people he’s _failed_ . . . including Felix. . . .

 

Dearest Felix . . . who’d labored nobly and staunchly for justice and reform, even during his truncated, remaining months of life. And in spite of the added onus and _embarrassment_ of bearing the ever-after besmirched millstone of the Alexius name.

 

Gereon is—more often than he isn’t, these days— _grateful_ that his own eternity approaches on ever-swifter feet.

 

With the advent of his unrelieved bone-weariness; frequent difficulties breathing; seemingly random dizzy spells; and the slipping rhythm of his once-steady heart, time—hasty and unseemly as always—has once more become his friend. And it is only a small measure of the same before that friendship completes its fraught and cruel course. Smaller, probably, than even _Gereon_ supposes.

 

Even now, his heart flutters and falters in its unstable rhythm. Though he can’t tell what is age and worsening health, and what is the simple, traitorous joy at seeing the only person left in Thedas for whom he bears admiration and affection, respect and . . . _love_.

 

“The quality of the brandy . . . is of no moment. The brandy’s _bearer_ , however, always is,” Gereon says with halting earnestness, his voice rusty and creaking from disuse. Grand Enchanter Fiona hasn’t been by since just before the battle with the Elder One. And Gereon rarely has cause to speak to his guards or the servants. He doubts they would care for or reply to attempts at communication beyond a few short, essential exchanges. “Though I would not have turned my nose up at some fresh raspberry puffs, like back home.”

 

“Mm, yes. Orlais has some truly _marvelous_ confections, but I’d take any of Tevinter’s simplest, rustic trifles over them any day,” Dorian declares, blushing and smiling at Gereon’s ham-handed, but genuine compliment as he pours the brandy. Gereon’s brows lift at the generous amount he accords them both, and Dorian shrugs, rolling his eyes. “ _Vile_ , it may be, but it’s certainly potent!”

 

“You’re the connoisseur,” Gereon demurs with a chuckle that’s even rustier and more underused than his speaking-voice. He’s vaguely ashamed of that for some reason, and clears his throat before taking up his glass. His tentative sip makes him wince.

 

“Yes, say what one will about _Orlesian_ brandy—and I _do_ , at length and volume—but it makes one reminisce fondly about its Antivan counterpart.” Dorian takes a sip, too, then makes a loftily disgusted and genteelly contemptuous face. “ _Eugh_! For coming off _worst_ in such a comparison, this dreck should banned from polite society! Never mind the actual _taste_!”

 

“I . . . have _missed you desperately_ , Dorian,” Gereon admits with neither hesitation, nor embellishment, and he’s laughing heartily as he does. Breathlessly. The laughter makes his heart stutter and his lungs complain, but those things are worth it— _negligible_ , even—for the way Dorian lights up, from eyes to smile to _being_.

 

“And I, you, Gereon,” he replies, with a quickly averted gaze. But it returns promptly, bearing a bright welter of emotions that, if acknowledged by either of them, will likely end in tears for them both.

 

Gereon clears his throat, examines his brandy in the westering sunlight, and puts on the mantle of serene and well-meaning mentor. And though he’s no longer worthy of mentoring _anyone_ , let alone in a satisfactory shape to do so, he finds that, as ever, he only wishes Dorian Pavus well. Wishes for him the happiness and contentment Felix never got a chance to create for himself.

 

“So,” Gereon ventures under the _lead-lined light_ of Dorian’s undivided regard and unadulterated warmth, “has he plighted his troth, yet?”

 

Dorian looks confused and wary. “Er. . . ?”

 

“Your Inquisitor, my young friend. He’s . . . a ‘Marcher, yes? Yes. And they approach these things with a less . . . rigid mind than we do in the Imperium.” Gereon waves a dismissive hand and gives no sign of the slushy-labored protests of his broken, limping heart. Dorian blushes deeply and is clearly fighting a huge, abashèd grin.

 

“Yes. Ryland . . . _the Inquisitor_ was born in Seheron, but raised in the Free Marches.” Dorian’s perfectly groomed brows lift in gentle enquiry. “And how did you guess that he’s . . . _my_ Inquisitor? Has the wagging of indiscreet tongues reached even _this_ corner of Skyhold?”

 

“Not at all,” Gereon says mildly, and leaves it at that. He has no intention of troubling Dorian with just how lonely, spare, and lightless his former-master’s existence has become. Those states are, after all, entirely deserved. “But he accompanied me when I was escorted from the dungeons, to this chamber. An . . . escort for my escorts, I suppose. On the journey from the dungeons, we did not speak to each other, your Inquisitor and I. But before my guards shut me in here, he stared down at me from that impressive height of his, and said: ‘I don’t give a nug’s naked arse if you’re grateful to me for sparing you. Frankly, even my respect and admiration for your son wouldn’t have been enough reason to spare your life, after all you’ve done. But should _Dorian Pavus_ ever choose to visit you, then you’d _bloody well_ better be grateful to _him_. You’re free of the dungeons and _still breathing_ because of _his_ kind heart and beneficence, Magister Alexius . . . and no one else’s.’”

 

At Dorian’s look of startlement, dismay, and compassion, Gereon smiles again. But it’s more a reflexive response to his attractively flushed and flustered guest, than any measure of magnanimity in the face of defeat. Though, even Gereon could see that if the _best_ man hadn’t won such an enchanting prize, then certainly a _better man than Gereon_ had.

 

Dorian Pavus deserves and has _always_ deserved a far higher baseline of excellence in a partner, than: _Better than Gereon Alexius_. So had Livia deserved a higher baseline for a husband, and Felix for a father. These truths are _especially true_ now, at the end of Gereon’s downward trajectory. But he supposes he must content himself with the reassurance that the _Inquisitor_ , at least, is _better than most_ , as well as better than Gereon, himself. “At any rate, Dorian, I shall be quite surprised if you tell me he hasn’t at least declared his intentions regarding you.”

 

“He . . . has. And so have _I_ , for that matter.” Dorian’s gaze ticks to Gereon’s then down to his syrupy brandy. He takes another small sip and is apparently so distracted, he doesn’t even wince at the cloying taste. “He’s asked me to stay here. To stay on with the Inquisition. Stay with _him_.”

 

Gereon nods his acknowledgement, and ignores the pangs of melancholy and howls of disenfranchisement that resound within him. “And will you?”

 

“I don’t know.” Dorian’s brow furrows. He, too, is clearly torn between _love_ and _duty_ : the oldest dilemma in the world, and the one that most often leads to ruin no matter which path is chosen. “I mean, I _plan_ to stay here for a while, anyway. But there are things back home that want doing. Want _changing_. And _I_ can’t exempt myself from helping to do and change them. I can’t stay on at Skyhold _forever_ , even if that’s what I wish for most. And I can’t . . . I _can’t_ ask Ryland to follow me to Tevinter, even with Corypheus defeated and the Breach sealed.”

 

“Why is that?” Gereon prompts, though he already knows the answer. Had known it from the day of his transfer from the dungeons, upon studying the young Inquisitor’s stern, but terribly easy-to-read face and impassioned, ice-blue eyes, before he’d stalked out of Gereon’s newer, softer prison. “You think he would say _no_?”

 

“I _know_ he would say _yes_ , the pigheaded lout! He’s already-bloody- _offered_ without my prompting!” Dorian snorts in exasperation, as expected. But his smile is smitten and soft. “Stubborn, unbelievable, _high-handed_ . . . loyal, sweet, _ridiculous_ idiot! He has precisely _half_ the self-preservation instincts of an apathetic lemming! And Heaven forbid _anyone_ tries to instill _common sense_ into that horned brick he calls a skull! It’s like arguing with a _particularly_ handsome and stoic _boulder_!”

 

Gereon chuckles again as Dorian complains gleefully— _lengthily_ —about his Inquisitor’s flaws. _Smiles_ , and drifts into absent thoughts of Livia. In the eighteen years since her death, it’s only within the past few months that remembrance of her and reminiscence of the happiest days of his life feels less like a long-lost idyll and more like . . . anticipation of a nearing holiday. The _best_ holiday.

 

Perhaps even an eternal one.

 

 _Soon_ , he understands, in a moment of clarity and sadness, joy and regret. He blinks away the barest suggestion of tears and swallows a small, but growing lump in his throat. In his chest, his heart staggers from beat to beat, slowing glacially, but inevitably, toward an eventual and longed-for rest. _Very soon, now, I shall get the ending that’s coming to me, whatever it may be. Soon, I shall have the ending I’ve earned. We all will, I suppose_.

 

The thought fills him with fear and dread . . . and relief, leavened with quiet, sere satisfaction.

 

With a ray of hope that _Dorian’s_ ending in this strange, sad tale of theirs, is a happy one. A _bright_ one.

 

Thus, possessed—at last—of a serenity born from _acceptance_ , rather than despair and apathy, he takes up his cringe-worthy Orlesian syrup and suffers another small sip. For politeness only. And he remembers with fondness, longing, and _wonder_ the role he once played in Dorian’s life: that of trusted, respected, and . . . _belovèd_ mentor.

 

He’s surprised and _honored_ at the chance to play it once more, even briefly.

 

Even if it’s to be his _final_ role—and he suspects that it will—he’s determined to play it to the hilt. To embody all that he _once was_ and all that he _could_ have been, to the best of his remaining ability.

 

“Does he love you?” he interjects when Dorian pauses his enumeration of the Inquisitor’s myriad, less-than-charming—yet no less _enticing_ . . . Dorian’s adoration, even if it’s unspoken, is obvious—quirks and idiosyncrasies. After several long, poleaxed moments, characterized by blinking and gaping, Gereon’s former-student pouts, and nods with simple, core-deep certainty. That certainty, as well as wonder and excitement, shines from him incandescently. Even Gereon can only put aside his regrets for the nonce, and focus on relieved happiness for the only and last person left whom he loves. He focuses on hope. On the road of potential greatness that is unfurled and waiting at Dorian Pavus’ feet. “And you love him, as well, I presume?”

 

“Yes,” Dorian whispers anxiously, looking down at his brandy as if having never seen its like before. “Irrevocably. _Unreservèdly_. And I’m rather at a loss, you see, as . . . I’ve never loved anyone who’s . . . loved me _back_.”

 

Gereon reaches over and pats Dorian’s hand reassuringly, but doesn’t bother to correct him. Doesn’t see the point in resurrecting old ghosts merely to redeem his own sullied, exhausted soul.

 

He clutches the mantle of mentor and well-wisher to himself tight, and when he speaks, it’s to say nothing less than absolutely _everything_ Dorian has come to him in hopes of hearing.

 

Whether it’s true—any of it—or simply a collection of worn platitudes he’d once been naïve and untried enough to believe . . . it’s the only gift Gereon has left to give his former-student at this late, all-gone-wrong date.

 

“I’m sure you will do well by your Inquisitor, my young friend, and he by you,” Gereon soothes with paternal certainty. Dorian’s lingering youth and tender optimism are too firmly entrenched to be safely shifted, or challenged, so Gereon does not. For a little while longer, at least, those blinders are, of necessity, as thick and opaque as an Orlesian _apéritif_. “Tenacity, bravery, and a true heart are _fine_ starts on a shared path of commitment and trust. On a potential _lifetime_ of love and devotion and happiness. These virtues will fortify you both in perpetuity, and together, the two of you will weather the tests of time and tide. You’ll come through on the other side stronger, happier, _better_ , and unbowed. . . .”

 

END

**Author's Note:**

>  _Lead-lined light_ stolen with sincere respect and cheerful shamelessness from [Hotot](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hotot)! Check out their fics, especially [Bunny Aint No Kinda Rider](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12848628) and [The Trick to This](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8930290)! And also check out the works of the two inspirations responsible for getting me back on the Dorian-train, [TheAmazingBlue_J](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAmazingBlue_J) (shameless, Bioware trash-panda of the Mass Effect-stripe) and [CollarsAndCurses](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CollarsAndCurses) (shameless, Bioware trash-panda of the Dragon Age-stripe)!
> 
> [beetle on the Tumbles](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


End file.
